


A matter of trust

by Esthree



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:30:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5185355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esthree/pseuds/Esthree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin lives through the BoTFA, but he doesn't know if his nephews did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A matter of trust

**Author's Note:**

> My great thanks to Saetha who did the proof-reading of the fic and made it readable!

He hears a distant noise, then steps and finally whispering. Under his lids it’s all gray and brown, interlaced with dark spots. He tries to force his eyes open, but fails. Is he blind now? His hands don’t obey him. As does everything else. Is he dead? No, the dead don’t breathe. In. Out. In. He feels a vaguely familiar scent in his nostrils - thick and keen: blood, alcohol, herbs. Healing quarters.

He’s hot. And cold. He’s hot and cold at the same time. It feels like there was a goblin that pegged out in his mouth. And then rotted in there. And now the remains of its sharp bones are scratching his throat. _Water._

“Mmmph…”

A wretched mumbling comes out of his lips instead of a request. An expressive one probably, because there’s a mug pressed to his mouth at once. A mug of water – clean, cold, sweet… _give it back!_

“Mmm!”

“Later.”

Thorin takes a deep breath, relishing the refreshing feeling from the two small gulps. “Later” means that his guts have been damaged and sewn up, and the result is yet uncertain. He’s puzzled by the absence of pain. He should feel it. Even the poppy seeds don’t alleviate it completely. He should thank the wizard, probably. What’s up with him? Everything is a haze… 

The last thing he remembers is the broad blade piercing him in the stomach between the flaps of his chainmail, and Fíli’s desperate cry, while he breaks through to help him and falls under Azog’s powerful blow. Then the Pale Orc raises his hand and… Fíli! 

“Aghhh!”

His insides are bursting with scorching pain, everything turns scarlet, and the back of his head meets with something soft and thick.

“Feeling fine already?”

Thorin makes an effort to unglue his eyes and sees a familiar face, shaggy eyebrows knited in anxiety. Dwalin! Alive, thanks Mahal…he must know what’s up with the boys!

“Fí.. li. Kíli… What?..” he tries to raise his hand, and Dwalin catches his wrist and pins it to the bed. 

“In Durin’s name, stop moving!”

“Are they… alive?”

“They were, last time I saw them.”

_Ah, thank you so much. That was very reassuring._

“They were both wounded. Gravely. Healers are with them,” Dwalin sighs and looks away. “Kíli is the worse of the two, his elf-lass’s treating him now.”

Thorin winces over the name of Kíli’s gingerheaded she-elf. His nephew could've made a better choice, in his opinion. Long, lean, poke her with a finger and she’ll break. Well, there’ll be time to talk about it, when Kíli gets better. Mahal, let him get better. Thorin’s eyes close against his will.

It’s already dark when he wakes again. There's a single candle that crackles quietly, making fuzzy shadows dance on the walls. How long has it been? The battle… Azog…his wound. The boys! It’s alright, Dwalin said, they are alive. But he wasn’t looking him in the eyes. No, he wouldn’t have mentioned that elf-lass, he knows how Thorin feels about her. Or would he – to distract his attention from the most important point? He knows Dwalin, he wouldn’t have come up with such an idea. But Balin would…He must see the boys himself, he must make sure!

Experimentally Thorin takes a deep breath, tensing up as he is expecting his wound to respond to it. It hurts, but nothing he can’t endure. He probably won’t be able to sit up, but he can still turn on his side…sharp pain in his stomach provokes a similar response all over the rest of his body: left thigh, wrist, right shoulder, collarbone, knee. The noise of the blood rushing in his ears becomes louder and louder. The floor rises vertically… 

This time there’s a hand preventing him from falling backwards – it catches him under his back and gently lowers him on the pillows. 

“Are you fucking nuts?” Dwalin asks him blandly. “It looks like I can’t even go out to piss.” 

_By the way, speaking about it…_

“Ugh…”

When Dwalin comes back after emptying the vessel, Thorin turns his head, staring at him. 

“Take me to them.”

“Can’t even carry you there.”  
_  
Go on, grin, while you can. I’m going to get up one day and you’ll pay for this._

“Óin forbade it, or you would long since be lying in the Mountain. They’ve already begun to clean the lower levels.”

Thorin looks up. The tent is obviously of dwarven origin. Dáin’s, probably. Not an elvish one, and for that he is grateful.

“Wait for a day or two,” Dwalin puts a mug with Óin’s bitter mixture under his nose and helps him drink it. “Then you’ll be able to see them as much as you want.”

Thorin finishes the mug and blacks out almost immediately.

***

_“Have you seen it? Have you seen? I did it!”_

_The arrow protrudes from the very center of the target and Thorin feels pride for his younger nephew. Kíli is not even twenty, but he wields a bow better than Thorin himself at much later age._

_“You’ll make an excellent warrior.”_

_Kíli looks up at him and Thorin notices his serious gaze, not that of a careless child anymore._

_“I will not hide while others fight our battles for us!” Kíli says flatly. He frowns stubbornly, and Thorin wants to say that he’s too young to think about battles yet, but Kíli turns around towards him and he sees the blood trickling from the wound on Kíli’s head – across the temple and down his cheekbone towards his lips. And from the other wounds too: on his chest, on his hands and stomach…_

_“K-Kíli…you…”_

_“I will not hide,” Kíli says again. Fíli approaches his brother and puts a hand on his shoulder in a form of silent support._

_“Fíli?”_

_Fíli draws near his brother, his lips moving without making a sound, and there is blood in his golden hair too, staining his fair locks dark like rust. Thorin lowers his gaze and sees a blade protruding from his nephew’s chest…_

_“No-ooo!”_

Dim light comes from a crack between the wall and the loosely shut flap of the tent. Thorin gasps for breath without noticing the dull ache in his chest. His skin is damp and sticky with sweat.

_Mahal, please, not them. Not them._

If they were dead, somebody would have let him know. Óin, Dwalin – they would have told him. Or wouldn't they? They don’t want to worry him, don’t want him to get up. They could have lied to him, could have deceived him if only to make him stay calm and lie still. He must make sure. Even if it’s true. He must take a look… what was it that Dwalin had said? “You’ll be able to see them as much as you want.” What would he see? His living nephews or their graves?

Thorin pulls down the fur blanket and turns to his side, gritting his teeth tightly. This time it’s easier. Now he just has to put down one leg. And the other. Put the weight on his hand. Breathe in. Sit down. Wait until the mist before his eyes dissipates. Now all that is left is to stand up and make it to the exit. He can do it. Just let go off the edge of the bed, straighten up and take a step. Fine…

He comes to his senses in his bed, listening to Dwalin’s swearing and Óin’s promises to tie him to the bed with leather straps next time.

“… all the work is for nothing. He will bleed to death and you can start looking for another king. What you need…”

“Óin, what is up with my nephews?”

“…is absolute rest, if you don’t want your wounds to open up again.”

“Óin!” Thorin catches hold of his sleeve. “How are Fíli and Kíli?”

“And no harsh movements!”

Óin crossly pulls away his hand and tightens the bandage.

“I don’t hear what you are mumbling, anyway. I’ve lost my ear trumpet somewhere.”

Thorin grits his teeth in a fit of a helpless rage. 

“Should we better tie him up right away?” Dwalin smirks.

“With such blood loss he won’t be able to raise his head from the pillow,” Óin mutters into his beard whilst gathering his tools.

_Oh, so he doesn’t hear well, does he? Bastards._

 

Thorin lets his gaze slide over the thin walls of the tent swelling out under the gushes of wind, without thinking anything in particular. 

“Dwalin.”

“Mmm?” 

Dwalin runs the whetstone along the blade of his axe and checks the edge with his finger. 

“You have lied to me, haven’t you? About Fíli and Kíli.”

Dwalin wearily rubs his eyes.

“I don’t know how else to tell you…”

“Openly. Tell me openly – are they alive?”

“What does it matter? You won’t believe me all the same.”

_Should I?_

Thorin clenches the sheets in his fist.

“Just tell me the truth!”

Dwalin sighs heavily and leans his axe against the fragment of the pillar which is used instead of a table.

“They are alive. If you don’t want to listen to me, ask anyone else, ask Balin…”

“No, thanks, I will not ask your brother!”

“You are lucky that he didn’t hear that.,” Dwalin growls.

“Didn't hear what?” Balin asks cheerfully as he is pulling aside the flap of the tent and stepping inside.

“He doesn’t believe us. Thinks that we are deceiving him about the boys.”

_The hurt look on Dwalin’s face is an indescribable sight. At another time he would have laughed at it._

“Well,” Balin narrows his eyes slyly. “I suppose I know whom you would believe more, Thorin.” 

He draws the flap of the tent open and steps aside with a small nod.

_If it’s the wizard, don’t delude yourself with false hope._

A head with long white-blond hair appears in the opening. 

Yes that’s right, Thranduil: elves should bow before the King under the Mountain. Even if he lies here like a crushed worm.

Thorin clenches the fur, sits up on the bed and leans back with relief when Dwalin shoves a pillow under his back.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Thranduil, annoyed at the forced bow, straightens with a fastidious wince, designed to express true condolence. “I am glad to see you sound of mind if not of body.” 

_Ah, it’s gladness now._

“It’s a shame I can’t say the same about you.”

Thranduil’s expression hardens.

“I believe it is time for all of us to leave the old quarrels in the past for the welfare of both our people. I hope that the dwarrow will not forget their promises to their allies.”

_One should have known where this was going to lead._

“All the promises _that I have made_ will be kept in full.” 

Thranduil bats his eyelashes contentedly.

“Until I return to my duties, you can negotiate with my heirs.”

“I doubt that they will get better before you,” the elf raises his eyebrows, slightly puzzled. “I have spoken to Dáin Ironfoot…”

“With my heirs,” Thorin insists. 

Thranduil smiles knowingly. 

“You don’t trust you kin.”

“Dáin has my full confidence. But he is not authorized to act for Erebor.”

“Be it as you wish, King under the Mountain. I hope that your nephews didn’t inherit your family stubbornness to the same extent.” Thranduil gives him a curt nod. “I dare not bother you with a longer conversation.”

He leaves the tent, the hem of his long robes sweeping the floor, and finally Thorin can breathe out, lie down and relax…

“Are you satisfied?” Dwalin growls and pulls up Thorin’s blanket.

Yes. He is now. Thorin smiles. His eyes shut by themselves and he falls asleep for the first time in days without fear of nightmares.

The rays of the sun cut through the comfortable twilight of the tent, falling on plates of armour in the corner and reunite, reflected, in a golden cloud near the opening… _golden_. Thorin blinks and peers at the dark silhouette against the blinding light.

“Fíli…”

“Uncle!”

Fíli rushes to him, and Thorin’s heart clenches with pain and tenderness when he sees that Fíli's right leg is stiff. Fíli waves his hand to keep his balance and winces at once. When he finally makes it to the bed, he grasps the blanket and slips down onto his knees with his forehead pressed against Thorin’s chest. 

_My golden boy._

Thorin gently strokes his tangled locks the colour of ripe wheat. 

“You shouldn’t have come.” His voice is rough and harsh, and Fíli tenses up immediately. “Didn’t Óin tell you to stay in bed?”

“It’s because of Kíli! He got it into his head that they are lying to us. That you… that something is wrong with you and they won't tell us,” Fíli murmurs without raising his head, and his warm breath tickles Thorin's skin through his shirt.

“What nonsense.”

“Exactly,” Fíli straightens up and meets his gaze with a serious look, “I’ve told him so.”

_Kíli is obviously the better pretender of the two._

Thorin smirks and ruffles his hair, and Fíli smiles at him with relief and puts his head down on his chest again.  
“Tell Kíli,” Thorin leans forward, almost touching the messy hair with his lips, “to stay in bed until he gets better.”

“I will.” Fíli looks him into the eyes. “You’ll be alright?”

“Aye.”

“I thought as much.” Dwalin peers into the tent. “Balin is looking for you all over the camp. He wants to discuss the compensations and you have vanished into thin air.”

“I’m coming.” Fíli blushes slightly. He gets on his feet with obvious effort and hastily limps towards the opening.

Dwalin closes the flap and turns to Thorin.

“Do you need anything?”

Thorin shakes his head.

“No. Just feeling drowsy.”

“Then have a rest. Balin will get here soon with his papers and you’ll have no time for sleep.” 

“You are right… Dwalin!”

“Aye?” Dwalin looks down at him.

He will ask. He has to know for sure.

“If it had been… with the boys… if they had… Would you’ve told me the truth?”

“Thorin,” Dwalin meets his gaze firmly. “You know that I can’t lie to you.”

He knows. It was stupid of him to think otherwise.

Thorin closes his eyes and leans back on the pillows with a small smile on his lips. He doesn’t hear Dwalin walking out of the tent and closing the flap while murmuring into his beard:

“But I would have learned.”  



End file.
